


Habits

by pippen2112



Series: War Wounds [4]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-typical swearing, Chorus Trilogy, M/M, Not Your Typical Soulmates Universe, Season/Series 11 Spoilers, Soulmarks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 21:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9404360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: While debating what to do about the simulation troopers dropped into the middle of their happy little civil war, Felix and Locus meet a surprising ex-Freelancer.***edit Feb 16, 2017 for formatting





	1. Unfortunate

**Author's Note:**

> This alternative universe hinges on soulmarks, names that appear on a person's body at various points in one's life. Some people have many names. Some have few. Some have none. It is commonly believed in the universe of this story that soulmarks are the names of your soulmate(s), but evidence is inconclusive.

The survivors of the crashed UNSC vessel are not what Locus expects when Control sends him orders to surveil the crash site.  They stand out in every sense of the phrase:  they are loud, rebellious, unorganized, and their armors could only pass as camouflage in a candy factory. Or an infant's fever dream.

What Control with wants these simulation troopers, Locus can only guess, and the more he eavesdrops on their conversations, the greater his confusion becomes.  Between the maroon soldier changing sides, the red leader not so subtly attempting to assassinate the insubordinate yellow soldier, the blue soldier treating a Mantis droid like a disobedient pet, and the teal soldier consistently skivving off his drill practices, it seems the only soldier of merit among them is the twitchy leader in powder blue who has a knack for spotting Locus's position among the cliffs, cloaking be damned.  Were Felix here, he'd be cursing every time Locus had to pack up his sniper's nest.  Locus, in contrast, can't help admiring the vigilance, the perception.  _Finally, a soldier_.

As he watches the blues running drills, the teal soldier struggling to keep pace with his powder blue superior, Locus scans through radio channels until he finds their comm frequency.  Amazing how easily technology can be turned against its users.

"Knees high, Tucker.  Higher!"

"Uhhhhhhhh," comes a groan; Locus can only assume that's the teal soldier--Tucker, apparently--from the way he throws his head back in protest.  "I hate you."

"That's 'I hate you, sir.'"

Another groan.  "Didn't sir Church.  Not gonna sir you."

Locus's brow furrows.  Siris never would've stood for that kind of insubordination while they were on campaign.  Of course after the war, Siris could control him and Felix about as well as a beleaguered mother could control two troublesome toddlers.  From the powder blue soldier's suppressed sigh, Locus suspects this soldier is long past the end of his rope.  Long past truly caring if his soldiers pay him any mind.

Still, the teal soldier picks up the pace, racing up and down the length of the crashed ship, huffing for every breath.  Tucker gasps between breathes.  "You.  Are.  The.  Worst."

"Another lap?" The powder blue soldier says as Tucker approaches the finish line.  "Well, if you insist, Private."

Tucker collapses ten yards short of completing his drills.  Huffing into the ground, he says, "Don't know... if I've said it... yet today, but..."

"Let me guess.  You hate me?"

Tucker shoots the powder blue soldier a middle finger salute.

Shaking his head, the powder blue leader replies.  "If it'll keep you alive, you can keep on hating me."

"Fuck you."

Locus can't decide if he should gape or knit his brow at this perplexing pair.  What kind of soldier is so willfully insubordinate?  What kind of leader doesn't demand his soldier's respect?  What kind of leader is so content to be ignored?

And yet, after a few moments of wordless griping, Tucker drags himself to his feet and starts another lap.  Even though a visor masks the powder blue soldier's face, Locus surmises from the straightened curve of his spine and his newly-squared shoulders that the soldier below him might just be smiling.

Turning his scope to the other end of the canyon, Locus ignores the burning sensation in his chest, the coiling in his gut.  Out of sight, out of mind.

#

_"Hey, shit for brains."_

His partner's voice blares over their secure comm link, jolting Locus from his bleary-eyed midnight watch.  What the fuck does Felix want?

He clears his throat before replying.  "What now?"

 _"C'mon, you don't write, you don't call,"_ Felix says, his voice full of malicious amusement.  _"I'm starting to think you don't care if the New Republic bores me to death."_

Locus holds back a cutting rebuttal.  _Not like you'd let death stop you from being a nuisance._  He reserves his venom for when its warranted, deserved.  Unlike Felix who doles out cruelty like a politician glad-handing.  If his helmet were off, Locus would massage away the lines of pain in his brain--lines he not so affectionately refers to as "Felix pains."  But his helmet is on, so he must endure.

"This channel is for emergencies only, Felix."

_"Well, the world must be ending because I can't conceive of another possible reason you'd be scoping out that UNSC crash site instead of nursing the Fed's piss-poor excuse for a general on you mighty monster milk."_

Locus grimaces.  Honestly, Felix's way with words is both evocative and disturbing in the extreme.  He's heard Felix's stories enough times to ruin every punch line, but his partner still surprises him.  In fact, he's impressed.  But when Felix's words sink into his skull, when he understands what Felix is implying, the knot in Locus's stomach winches tighter.

Felix knows he's not on base.  Felix knows, and for the life of him, Locus doesn't know what to say.  For the first time in years, Locus is curious.  He wants this, regardless the paycheck.  The crash site.  The simulation troopers.  He found them first.  He has claim to them.  At least until he understands who they are.  What they are.  Why they're here.

As the seconds drag on, Felix whistles an old ditty.  Like he hasn't a care in the world.  Like the sun rises and sets for him alone.  Locus's throat goes tense and parched.  He's due to answer, and he's long overdue.  No matter how disquieting and out of character he feels, selfishness has never been his flaw.  Locus exhales softly and responds.  "Control's scans detected anomalies at the crash site.  As the Federal Army has greater resources, Control instructed me to surveil the site."

On the other end of the line, Felix makes a small sound, a laugh masked under a huff.  Amused at his perceived good luck--Felix never has been able to sit still long enough to excel in reconnaissance work.  _"Anything down there worth mentioning?"_

Wincing, Locus answers.  "There are survivors."

 _"Survivors?"_ Felix's voice cracks at the strength of his surprise.

Well, that's one small victory at least.  "Yes.  Survivors."


	2. Impulsive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This alternative universe hinges on soulmarks, names that appear on a person's body at various points in one's life. Some people have many names. Some have few. Some have none. It is commonly believed in the universe of this story that soulmarks are the names of your soulmate(s), but evidence is inconclusive.
> 
> Note: This chapter includes a passing reference to knife play, but no actual activities.

As he stumbles through the remains of the crashed UNSC ship, Felix can't help wondering how his life came to this.  Really.  If someone had told him fifteen years ago he'd end up on the front lines, Felix would've called them a liar.  If someone had told him five years ago he'd end up on this sad excuse for a planet, he would've called them a moron because he's never _ever_ leaving atmo again.  If someone had told him six months ago he'd be pulling one over on one of the fabled Freelancers, well, Felix would take a moment to preen under the praise before calling it one big crock of bullshit.

And now--

 _"You get lost?"_ Agent Washington asks over the radio.

Now, he's too damn baffled to make the most of this holy-shit-I'm-conning-a-goddamn-Freelancer glee.

"Just getting the lay of the land.  Never knew when you'll need a bolt hole."

_"Uh-huh.  So... lost."_

Yeah, he's totally fucking lost, but with Locus eaves dropping over their private channel, he's never gonna admit it.  Not that he'd admit it even if Locus weren't listening.  A man's gotta have his pride after all.  So Felix rolls his eyes and backtracks to the grav-lift, his leg throbbing and his toes seeming farther away with each step.  That's not normal, right?  He's been shot enough that he'd remember not being able to feel his toes in the aftermath.  That's gotta be some kind of fuck up, courtesy of the sim troopers' medic.  Felix shakes his head and tries to sort out the last few hours.

_"Holy shit, it's actually them."_

_Felix can't even begin to mask his disbelief.  He counts the rainbow colored simulation troopers in the valley below, his HUD flashing with all the data Hargrove provided them on Project Freelancer and the soldiers that took down the Director.  And now, they've appeared on this inconsequential rock in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere.  It's either the best luck they've ever had, or the universe is breathing deep before laughing in his face._

"Indeed," _Locus answers over the radio.  He's hidden somewhere among the cliffs, cloaked but still studying the soldiers below._ "Control said we might encounter them after the crash."

_Felix rolls his eyes.  The longer this job runs, the more he's convinced he and Locus are getting the shit end of this deal.  Sure, playing two armies against each other is any sociopath's wet dream, but going on two years tethered to this same little rock, the payday's starting to lose its allure._

_Honestly, he needs a little excitement.  Not wants.  Needs. Something to shake up his routine of training-patrol-recon-sparring-scheming-smuggling-sleep.  Anything really.  If he's stuck in the same-old-same-old too much longer, he's gonna start cutting people just to hear the screams._

_Locus sighs._ "Control will not be pleased."

Yeah, when is Hargrove ever pleased? _He scoffs.  "Control can suck a bag of dicks."  But as he speaks, the gears in his mind are already turning.  A pack of simulation troopers and two mercs land on a planet in the midst of civil war.  Sounds like the set up to the worst joke of all time.  But then again, if he's staring down at the reds and blues who brought down Freelancer, they might just make the rest of this pathetic little war interesting.  Worthwhile.  The tiniest bit dramatic._

"Felix--"

_"Shut up.  Just lemme think," he snaps, ignoring the way his gut tenses and his mouth waters.  Right now, he doesn't need enthusiasm; he needs rationale, logic, a plan.  Charon Industries had already quietly collected all the data and tech from Project Freelancer, were currently working on new innovations in warfare, were clearly flush with cash and willing to pay out the nose for results.  Drumming his fingers against his rifle, Felix asked, "What're we charging per head these days?"_

_Locus doesn't respond.  Felix scans the cliff faces, brow furrowed.  What the hell?  Even if Felix is the one who gets his kicks carving the laughter into manslaughter, Locus can and will snap a couple necks without batting an eye or breaking a sweat.  So what's crawled up his partner's ass and left him hesitating?_

_"We're gonna kill 'em," he continues.  "Obviously.  That's what we do best.  But our agreement with Charon doesn't say anything about nixing a group of war heroes.  Or criminals, I guess.  But as our deal stands, this kind of work is a little outside our paygrade.  And I'm betting we can squeeze Control for celebrity rates."_

_Locus hums, weighing the pros and cons against his compulsive need for orders.  Felix adds, "You know what they say:  if you're good at something, add another zero to your asking price."_

_After a beat of silence, Locus responds,_ "I'll make a call."

_God, Locus shouldn't be so easy.  Really.  He should know better by now._

See, Felix has always had a way with words.  He's a professional.  People pay him to talk.  He can sweet talk a king from his crown and a queen from her bloomers (and, on rare occasions when he feels like a challenge, the other way around). 

So when he lays out the New Republic's predicament for this wiley band simulation troopers, he's entirely unprepared for their unenthusiastic, uninspired "no."  So entirely unprepared that he's borderline impressed.  Ticked off, but impressed.  He can't remember the last time someone--much less several someones--surprised him.

Then the word "freelancer" comes out of his mouth, and they draw on him.  Everyone but the blue guy who seems to think their Mantis droid is a damn golden retriever.  Still, if Felix's waste filtration system kicks into overdrive for a few seconds, no one will ever be able to prove it.  Though he's faced worse odds, there are few things more sobering than a group of idiots aiming firearms at your groin.

The radio blares in his ear just as the corridors start looking eerily familiar.  Again.   _"Yeah, you know exactly where you are."_

Alright, a group of idiots and one paranoid, aggressive, melodramatic ex-Freelancer.  Wearing powder blue armor.  In the middle of the jungle.  Jesus fuckin' Christ.  Felix can't wrap his head around that piece of tactical brilliance.  Seriously, does Washington just not believe in camouflage?  Has he been around so long that he thinks any bullets aimed at him will just alter course?

Wincing at his blunder, Felix shakes his head and about-faces down the opposite hall.  "'Course I do," he jests.  "I've got the inner compass of an albatross."

_"Ah.  So it's magnets in your head that's throwing off your suit's nav controls."_

Felix chuckles.  Frustrating as this situation is, Agent Washington actually has some comedic chops once you bust through all that prickly personality.  Which further complicates his mental picture of the ex-Freelancer who is _somewhere_ in this godforsaken wreck.  Seriously, did he disappear through a seam in the walls?  Felix wouldn't put it past Washington.  Not in the slightest. 

Because with every response he's weaseled out of Washington--be it terse comments, cryptic babble, or this new bout of scathing sass--Felix can make less sense of him.  Agent Washington is like a 3D puzzle made entirely of spheres: the pieces stubbornly refuse to fit.  For fuck's sake, Washington survived Project Freelancer, and Director Church, and the Project's spectacular crash and burn.  Got chewed up and spat out to die if Charon's files are even half-accurate.  And then refused to let the universe beat him down.  He's one of the best.  A professional.  An expert.  A badass.  So why's he thrown his lot in with this bunch of idiots?

"Agent Washington."  Felix adds a little faux-offence to his tone, playing nice until the time is right to strike, "did you just sass me?"  If he's flirting, well, a guy's gotta stay in practice.  Keep limber, so to speak.

_"Not like you've got a monopoly on it."_

Well sure, he's just not used to people mouthing back at him.  Between Kimball and the New Republic who're the walking embodiments of an ancient ASPCA ad and Locus whose sense of humor is drier than Sandtrap, Felix has gotten used to dishing out more snark in an hour than he gets in return in a month.  But Washington wisecracks like it's his first language, like he's more familiar with sass than with stony silences, clipped responses, or practiced apathy.  Felix's brain just _can't_ keep up.

"Didn't think you knew how to dislodge that stick up your ass.  Color me impressed, Agent."

Then Felix hears a muffled sound from around the corner, low enough he'd mistake it for static on comms but loud enough to carry in the open air.  A snort.  Unless Locus snuck into the wreckage and grew a sense of humor in the last hour--unlikely--Agent Washington... snorted? 

Once again, Felix thanks every god in the cosmos for his helmet and visor because he's probably pulling the dumbest expression as he rounds the corner, and he goes rigid.  He's found Agent Washington sure enough, but the ex-Freelancer is halfway out of that ridiculous powder blue get-up.  His under-suit's open at the nape of his neck, probably taking a few seconds to feel some fresh air on his freckled skin.  And Felix just stares.

Because in the six-odd inches of exposed skin, Felix counts five soulmarks, four of them angry purpled scars, one raw and dark and newly formed.  Felix has never seen that many marks in so small an area, much less that many soulmark scars.  Felix's fingers itch to rub his own marks--the mostly obliterated scar on his left thigh, the name on his right shoulder that he's never had an interest in reading.

He feels his cheeks flushing, his palms slicking inside his gloves.  All his life, he's loathed the very concept of soulmarks.  He's rolled his eyes when people talk about the names on their skin like they're signs from God or fate or whatever bullshit helps them sleep at night.  As far as he's concerned, if someone's gonna try and claim him, they better have more in their arsenal than some magic ink and the power of belief. 

And here's Agent Washington, ex-Freelancer extraordinaire, master of his own universe, and he's got not one but five marks on him.  Five marks that Felix can see.  And his mind spins so fast Felix thinks smoke might just billow from his ears.  Nothing makes sense anymore.  Agent Washington is a survivor.  A soldier.  A weapon forged in the hellish depths of Project Freelancer.  How did Washington qualify for a top secret project when he's so owned?  Christ, if he's got five marks in so small an area, what does the rest of his body look like?

Felix's mouth goes dry, and his gut lurches.

Before he can stop himself, Felix crosses the room, crowding Washington from behind.  His thumb sweeps across the exposed skin, skimming over the fresh dark name scrawled in an unintelligible hand.  Even though he can't feel the ex-Freelancer's skin through his gloves, the twitch of muscles beneath Washington's skin settles him.  A little.  But how much better would it feel to wrap his hand around Washington's neck, press up against his back, and slide a knife up under Washington's chin?  God, his fingertips prickle at the mere idea.

As soon as the thought crosses his mind, Agent Washington jolts forward.  His head snaps halfway around, and his hard gray eyes narrow around Felix.  Heart jumping in his chest, Felix feels his blood rush into his limbs, his body automatically bracing for a brawl.  Or at least a punch to the face.

Instantly, he takes stock of the wrinkles around Washington's eyes and mouth, the thin lines of gray growing in at his temples, the vigor in his stormy gaze, and all Felix can think is _Fuck, how young is this guy?_   Even though Washington's got a few miles under his belt and a stick shoved so far up his ass it's permanently altered his posture, he still looks closer to thirty than forty. 

For a moment, Felix's head swims.  If Agent Washington looks so youthful _now_ , how old was he when he got recruited into Project Freelancer?  How old was he when the universe took a massive shit on his life?  At once, Felix wants to smother Washington against his chest and wants to hunt down every sad sucker who thought putting a kid through the ringer was a grand idea. 

But before he can implement any such plan, and ultimately sign his own suicide note, Agent Washington's fists slowly uncurl.  His shoulders ease.  He moves smooth and sure, zipping up his undersuit and donning a set of gunmetal gray armor in record time.  Before he tugs on his helmet, Washington studies his reflection in his visor.  Felix follows his gaze.  Freckles high on his cheeks.  Blushing like a goddamn virgin.  And another couple soulmarks peeking out from under the neckline of his under-suit.   _Jesus Christ._

Felix barely hears Washington's words over the pounding in his ears.  "We should get back out there."  Washington pulls on his helmet and snaps the seals shut.  "I wouldn't trust the reds and blues to get much done unsupervised.  Or supervised."

"Right," Felix says, because how the fuck is Washington so level?  So calm?  So composed?  _God, I wanna mess that up._   He swallows the urge to scrub the back of his neck and clenches his hands on his gun.  "Need to turn this canyon into a killbox."  He pivots toward the door.  "Ready when you are, Agent Lovington."  When he hears Washington's steps hesitate on the grating, he adds, "Haven't seen someone that marked up since--"

"It's..." Agent Washington cuts him off.  "I just... I'm not so..."

Felix smirks.  It's so good to see him flustered.  "Oh, please, finish that thought."

He can practically hear Washington's jaw clenching.  It makes a little part of his soul jump for joy.  Still, Washington squares his shoulders and replies, "The last time I let someone get close, I got burned for it."

Felix chuckles just to see if it'll make Washington squirm.  "And you say you're not made of melodrama."

Washington shoulders past him, spine rigid.  "Like I said.  Old habits."

Old habits.  Felix mulls over the thought as he follows Washington back to the box canyon, and the simulation troopers, and reality.  He tries to slow his pace or look away from the nape of Washington's neck or work himself free of this enigma of a man in front of him.  He can't.  Felix doesn't understand, not in the slightest, but he knows better than to rebel against the hook in his belly.  He can't just walk away.  Not now.  It's a habit.

Dumb habits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any questions, comments, concerns, or constructive criticism are welcome!


End file.
